


Sacrifice of Thorns

by Statari



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Christian Character, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Sitting, Gladiators, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Statari/pseuds/Statari
Summary: When the Romans discover that John is a Christian, he knows he will be martyred in the arena and he makes his peace with it.  In an effort to humiliate him further, the guards place him in the cell of the Bane of the Arena, the infamously brutal gladiator scheduled to kill him.  Of all the terrifying scenarios to cross his mind, he could not have anticipated this.
Relationships: Bane (DCU)/John Blake
Comments: 32
Kudos: 281





	1. A Lion's Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Although inspired by historical events and Christian beliefs, I make no claims regarding religion or the persecution of early Christians. John briefly reflects upon his own homosexuality as being shameful within his chosen religion but there is no homophobia within this story. I acknowledge that different denominations of Christianity have different beliefs which are not necessarily reflected within this story. No offense is intended to any of them.
> 
> This is a work of FICTION intended to tell a short, sweet story about coming to understand someone and finding direction in life. Also... sex.
> 
> As always, if you don't like this sort of thing, just hit the back button. <3

  


**A Lion's Thorn**  


The dirt was cold against the fevered skin of his cheek. His pounding heart did not allow him to enjoy it. He scrambled to his hands and feet and threw himself backwards. Bars of steel knocked the wind from his lungs and pain flared in his bruised ribs. He pressed himself back against them with all the more force, his eyes rolling fearfully in the dark of his cell. 

John Blake was not alone. 

He had seen the monster of a man but once before, from the great distance that separated the crowd from the arena. 

“Enjoy your night,” the guard said with a cruel chuckle.

The butt of his spear shoved into John’s shoulder, causing him to wrench forward. But as soon as it was gone, he pressed back again. Padding footsteps of leather on worn dirt signaled his departure but John Blake was not alone.

The shadows were deep in the far corner of the cell. Thin, flickering light from the torch in the hall lit only a portion of the cell. His own hunched shadow danced on the stones like a demon but there was far worse in here tonight. John couldn’t see it yet, couldn’t see the man they called the Bane of the Arena, but he knew he was there. He sucked in desperate lungfuls of air and waited in vain for his eyes to adjust. 

A whisper of movement. John jerk his face towards it but otherwise did not respond. He didn’t bother moving. There was nowhere to go. 

There was no sound of footsteps to mark the movements of the monster, only the lessening of shadow and the gleam of skin in the torchlight as a man more massive than John could have ever imagined stepped in front of him. His shoulders were thick and broad, with nothing on them, not even the leather vest he often wore in the arena. His chest tapered slightly into a thick waist with thighs the size of tree trunks, wrapped in stained trousers. 

His face, though, that was the worst. Where nose and lips ought to have been, his face contorted horrifically into a snarling maw, open wide in a silent scream for blood and flesh. 

John’s breath caught in his throat and he could not breathe. They remained like that for long moments, no sound from either of them. Cries from other prisoners echoed, faint from down the hall. But the monster and the man did not move.

It took long minutes of that inaction for John to calm enough that his horrified staring eased and allowed him to notice the details of what he actually saw. What he had first seen as a gaping maw was not. It was detailed, but flat. A mask of iron and leather that appeared fixed to the man’s face. It covered his nose, mouth, and jaw with three thick straps that embraced his skull. Only his eyes were visible. 

Where he expected to see the blank, hungry stare of an animal, John saw a surprising spark of intelligence. They were intent on him, but clearly not without rational thought.

To his great surprise, the warrior known as Bane turned his back on John. He nearly sagged with relief, although he hated himself for its betrayal. Now was not the time to become complacent. He had been put here as a form of torture. Whether physical or emotional, John did not know. He knew only what his guards seemed to prefer when they thought up the idea.

The harsh scrape from the darkness made him jump and tense again. He was to be killed before he ever made it to the arena. 

But there was no weapon, only a shower of sparks followed by the small but expanding glow of a torch. Bane moved silently but efficiently, placing the torch in a sconce so that it might throw some light in the cell. It threw enough to reveal a cot in one corner, covered with a few thin blankets and a bucket several feet from the end. There was table with a water skin, a few unlit candles, a piece of paper, and a carved figurine. It looked like an alter. But for which god? Ares? Pluto? John jerked wary gaze back to his cellmate.

Bane had lowered himself down onto the edge of the cot, hunched forward to drape his long arms over his bent knees. He was watching John again, still not speaking. He nodded once, a small, nearly imperceptible dip of his chin, and then looked away.

It was then that John realized that Bane was likely not going to make another move towards him. Slowly, incredibly slowly, John’s heart began to slow down and his muscles began to relax. He remained where he was, seated with his back against the bars, until the cold of the ground and the steel made his bruised body ache nearly beyond bearing. It was only then that John forced himself to move. He clung to the steel bars, using them to pull himself to his feet. 

He trembled as he moved further into the cell, towards the light of the torch and its slight warmth. He tried to crouch near the wall opposite the cot, but his legs were weak, he collapsed into a seated position. His face flamed with embarrassment.

“You are injured.”

John’s eyes widened in shock. The voice was not as deep as might be expected, not as monstrous. He swallowed thickly, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. “The guards don’t like me much,” he said with a shrug, like it was nothing.

“Men such as they like very little,” the monster observed.

It’s not that John disagreed, but to be honest, he did not know how to respond. It was an odd topic to be addressed, in such a disjointedly cordial manner from a monster who had, not two weeks ago, ripped a man’s head from its shoulders in front of half of Rome. 

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” John asked. He wished he could have said it with passion or aggression. The small, resigned voice that came from his lips was not his own.

“I am.” 

John clenched his jaw.

“But not until tomorrow,” Bane added.

Rage coursed through him at the casual disregard of his life. He shoved off the wall to his feet, stumbling slightly when he attained the vertical. “Why wait?” he hissed, pounding a closed fist against his own chest. “Fight me now and have this done.”

Bane stood as well, but his movements were slow and controlled. He towered over John, who nearly trembled again but held his ground and met the monster’s eyes.

“Because those are not the roles we must play,” was all Bane said in response. 

The chill of that indifferent practicality was worse than the chill of the dirt floor. John shivered with it. “I will not play to their expectations,” John swore. He would have spat on the floor to punctuate his disgust but his mouth was far too dry to muster up the saliva. Instead, he took a swing at his cellmate. 

His arm was easily deflected, his ribs protested so sharply at the sudden torsion, that John couldn’t help the gasp. Broad hands righted him, settling on his shoulders until he regained his breath. When he did, he shoved the hands away, shoved against the massive chest. It jarred his wrist as though he had just tried to shove a stone wall. 

“Fight me,”John hissed.

In some way, it felt as though he were, indeed, playing to the expectations of his guards. But it was not John’s intention to goad Bane into beating him or raping him, or whatever cruel fantasies the guards’d had for him. It was his intention to goad Bane into killing him tonight, in this cold little cell beneath the arena. He would rather die here in the dark then up in the light for all of Rome to see. He would rather not be made an example. That was not why he was here.

Bane only tilted his head in curiosity at John’s rage, however, and did not attack him. “Have no fear, little one,” he murmured, “You will die with honor.”

John sagged at that and pulled himself away.

Bane allowed it and turned away. He settled his bulk in front of the makeshift altar and knelt. 

Wounds both old and new obscured the flesh of Bane’s back. Some of them were open, black with congealed blood that oozed down his back. John swallowed again, this time attempting to choke back the bile that threatened to escape his throat. 

“What happened?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He could not imagine why the Romans would abuse their gladiator so greatly, only hours or days before setting him up to make an example of one of their prisoners. Perhaps to enrage him? They certainly did not appear to weaken Bane in the slightest.

The dome of Bane’s skull tilted down towards the figurine on the table. He sat back on his heels, not engaged in active worship. Eventually, he spoke, saying, “The lion and I fought for the honor of striking the killing blow.”

John’s killing blow.

He honestly could not imagine grappling with a lion in such a way. Bane looked like he had nearly been torn to ribbons. It was a sick game. A contest to see what would kill John, when his execution came to pass. It was all a show and Bane was right. They had their parts to play. They had even given Bane a player’s mask and fixed it to his head so that he could never step out of that role. 

John padded forward and stood just over Bane’s shoulder. He could see the figurine now, carved out of a bar of soap. It appeared as a young woman, her curves slight but visible. There was no hair on her head, just a smooth dome not dissimilar to Bane’s. Her chin was lifted, her feet spread. She looked stable and defiant. She did not appear as any god that John recalled, Roman or other. 

The drawing, for there was one on the paper propped up on on the of the unlit candles, was a bird. It was a crude representation, but perfectly clear in its subject. A black bird with its wings spread wide seemed to be rising over the edge of a cliff. It was creased and smudged. Well worn and well loved. 

“Diana?” John guessed, motioning to the silent white figure.

“No.”

John blinked. There was no explanation. He looked down at Bane, who had placed his large, blunt fingers against the image of the bird's beak. He did not appear to be concerned that John was hovering just behind his back. John was not a threat. 

From up close, the wounds were even worse. This was not a fight that happened merely a few hours ago, but days. The edges were raw and the rifts between filled with dirt and congealed blood. There was an odor, too. It was so faint but John, who had always been fastidious, could tell right away that it wasn't the stench of an unwashed man. Bane himself actually appeared quite hygienic, despite his lack of proper cleaning facilities. 

“Has a doctor seen you?” he asked with renewed fierceness. His forehead creased in concern. 

Bane tilted his head towards John and raised an eyebrow. 

John didn't even need him to speak the words. He just huffed in response and picked up the water skin. It was large and full. Then he pulled his own tunic over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up as well. He shivered when the cold air whispered over his skin. 

Bane’s eyes tracked the movement, which prompted another, deeper shiver that had little to do with the temperature. 

John clamped the edge of his tunic between his teeth and pulled. The thin fabric gave way and tore easily along the line of the weave. John carefully sectioned off the cleanest portions of the strips he created. He balled one up in his hand, pulled the stopper from the water skin and eyed Bane critically.

The monster studied him placidly from above the mask. Slowly, his eyelids lowered in a blink and he turned his back to John once more. 

Taking that as permission, John soaked the rag with water and began dabbing at the worst looking wound near the left shoulder. It must have hurt without even wine to dull the senses but the only reaction was the stiffness with which he held himself. Occasionally there was a slightly sharper inhale when John loosed gravel from the broken skin or a chunk of infected scab broke off. John pressed his lips tighter together and kept working at it. 

Four pieces of his shirt and half the water skin later, John had cleaned the shoulders and upper back. He pushed gently at a bit of skin not freshly ruined and silently urged to man to lean forward and give John better access to his lower back. He tilted his head when Bane complied, angling to get a better look. There were puncture marks here, deeper. 

“Will you lie down?” John asked softly. His voice was rough from where the sides of his throat stuck to itself and even though he practically whispered, it sounded loud enough to wake the other prisoners, who had gone quiet some time in the past hour. 

Bane stood without comment and walked to the cot. He lay down on his stomach, his masked face turned towards the wall. 

Whether ill-advised trust or insulting disregard, the display made John hesitant once again to approach. The old scars were all the more prominent. The largest ran the length of his spine and appeared to be an odd mix between a cut mark and a burn mark. Even though Bane did not so much as twitch in discomfort, John broke his own stare all of a sudden. He moved quickly and sat on the edge of the cot near one hip. He leaned over to get a better look. 

“Why?” 

John glanced up but couldn't see anything save the straps of the mask and the flesh of one cheek. He licked uselessly at his dry, chapped lips. “Why not,” he deflected with a shrug that could not even be seen.

He poured water over the puncture wounds and as the blankets underneath Bane soaked up what had run down, Bane turned his head and fixed one dark eye on John. The direct shine of the torchlite made it look almost green. John didn’t stare back, but haltingly went about pouring water over what was now clearly a bite mark over one hip. 

“What is your name?” Bane asked again.

“I am called John.” There was silence after that.

“I did not ask you what you are called,” Bane reprimanded gently with that odd, almost lyrical intonation. “I asked you your name.”

John gritted his teeth. He had chosen this name and it felt as though this was the name he ought to die with. After everything that had happened, wouldn’t it be right for the last person to know him as a man to know him by his chosen name? There was a whisper in the dark recesses of his heart, however, that insisted someone should remember his as he was, as well. The sunrise would bring the end, so what did it really matter?

“Robin,” he finally growled through his still clenched teeth. “My mother named me Robin.”

Bane seemed to consider this for a minute, clearly thinking something over before choosing to set it free. “I once taught a bird to fly,” he mused. “Although she was not a songbird.”

John glanced over to the little make-shift altar. He could see the charcoal tip of one wing and the defiant girl beyond it. There was a story there that he almost wanted to ask about. There was something in the heaviness with which he spoke, however, that warned him not to pry too heavily.

Sensing that his cellmate would not ask for elaboration, Bane chose not to offer and instead asked, “Why did you change your name?”

John took a deep breath, cursing the shuddering he could feel in his lungs. The jittery beat of his heart affecting the rhythm of his breathing. The worst part was knowing that Bane would be able to hear it, hear his weakness. He didn’t want to talk about this, but he also did not want to sit in silence, unable to escape the sound and shiver and his humiliation. 

“I chose it when I converted,” he confessed. “It was the name of one beloved by God.” His voice was stronger in this, mirroring the strength of his conviction. 

Rather than the contempt he expected or the laughter he feared, Bane’s voice, when he spoke, was merely curious. “You are one of the Christians, then?”

“I am.” John wiped the skin around the bite mark clean. 

Bane hummed in acknowledgment. “You do not strike me as one easily taken in by fanciful ideas.”

“I’m not.”

At that, Bane lifted his head and twisted somewhat until both of their eyes met. Bane exhaled sharply, his eyes going tense before smoothing out again. John rolled his eyes and shoved at Bane’s shoulders, who surprisingly complied and lay flat again without complaint. The movement had shifted, stretched, and squeezed the punctures on his hip. The torch shone over something white, something that could not be bone and certainly didn’t belong.

“Why did you choose to become a Christian, knowing what becomes of them?” Bane asked, unaware of what John has found in his back.

John looked around the tiny cell for something he might use to pry the object loose from the skin. “I know truth when I hear it,” John said bluntly. “Out of every priest I have spoken to from every god you can name, only the Christians have spoken the truth. Life is dirty and ugly, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth living.” There was nothing even passably useful. “Hold still,” he added. “This is going to hurt.”

He poured water over his fingers and rubbed them clean. Stretching the skin with his left, John hesitated only long enough to make sure Bane wasn’t going to lurch out from under him, then he dug his thumb and forefinger into the wound.

He withdrew and Bane’s massive frame seemed to sag with relief.

The object pinched between his fingers, when he held it up, was covered in blood but white beneath. It was slightly longer than his thumb and just as thick, tapering to one end. He grimaced. It was a tooth. Namely, it was a large, pointed tooth from a lion and it had been lodged in Bane’s back. How had he been able to stand it?

John poured water into the now clean puncture, washing away fresh blood that was welling out now the tooth was gone. He pat it dry until the bleeding stopped. And just like that, there was nothing more John could do. The water was nearly gone and he had no herbs to pack into the wounds to stave off further infection. Perhaps when Bane finished with him and the show was over, their roles fulfilled, the guards would finally send for a doctor. Gladiators such as Bane were too valuable to allow to fester.

Bane sat up with such measured care that the cot barely shifted or creaked beneath him. John did not even need to shuffle off in order for Bane to settle next to him on the edge. 

The tooth was yellow at the base. He turned it over and then held it out to Bane.

They both stared at it, hanging in the air between them in John’s fingers, until rough, warm skin closed over it and tucked it into the palm of his hand. John frowned at it and then up at Bane, a question written there, but unspoken. 

His hand was released and those same fingers rose. John flinched but they only touched the shell of his ear. His flinch transformed seamlessly into a shiver. “What truth did you hear from the Christians?” Bane asked.

John was not an evangelist. He would be the last person anyone would call on to talk about the good news for it could never pass his lips as gracefully as it had been proclaimed to him. He did not truly understand much of the rituals performed, that had been passed down from their Hebrew origins. He did not truly understand why or how any god, much less the true God, could become man. For John, it had all boiled down to a few simple relationships that struck bedrock in his heart and echoed.

“That God is love,” he admitted. It sounded hollow, he didn’t even need to look at Bane to know how inadequate an answer it was. So he tried again. “God is love. Love is sacrifice. And if God himself is willing to suffer and sacrifice for what little good is left in this world, then we can do no less.” 

What started weak and uncertain, ended with the strength of forged iron. John’s eyes blazed brightly and he could once again meet Bane’s gaze.

There was no judgment, merely curiosity.

“Do you truly believe that there is good left in this world?” Bane turned his face to the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. “When the crowd is cheering for the spill of your blood, will you love them enough to die for them?”

John shook his head and let it hang down over his hands. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface of the lion’s tooth. “I am not going to die for the crowd.”

“Who, then, will you die for?”

He laughed and it tickled his throat, prompting a wrenching cough. He cough until his lung felt aflame and then he wheezed shallowly. It felt as though it would start again if he so much as filled his lungs completely. The water skin swam into view, he frowned at it and pushed it back towards Bane. “You’ll need it more than I will,” he told him.

“Drink,” Bane insisted, pushing it forward again. John took it feebly. Bane did not wait to watch him drink from it and instead lay down on his side, his back to the room and his face in shadows. 

John sat there, staring at the water skin and winding the last remnants of his shirt. When he could no longer keep his eyes open, he drained the last of the water, doused the torch, and lay on the ground against the wall opposite the cot. 

\---------

In one moment, he slid into the oblivion of sleep, in the next he was woken by a harsh shove and a shout. John scrambled up and pressed back against the wall with his hands up to fend off the unexpected attack. 

The Roman guard looked unimpressed with his display. “Move your ass,” he snarled, revealing his darkening, crooked teeth. 

When John did not immediately comply, he simply laughed. It was an ugly sound. 

“Did the Bane treat you so well?” he teased.

Once again, John did not respond, but merely glared up at his captor. Bane had not abused him. In fact, if anything, Bane might pity him enough to offer John a quick death.

Thinking about the man led John to dart his eyes around the cell. It was empty. The only sign that Bane had even been here were the bloodstains on the blankets of the cot. The paper and soap figurine were both gone from the table. His heart sank. He didn’t even know why. Seeing Bane one last time before they faced one another across the sands of the arena would make absolutely no difference. Bane would still kill him. He wouldn’t have a choice.

The guard leaned down and seized John by the arm, hauling him to his feet. He was shoved out into the hall. He glanced back through the bars, knowing that, for all its bare discomfort, it was the last peace he was likely to know in this life. 

The sun, when he finally stumbled out into it several hours later, bore down on him and nearly brought him to his knees. His shoulders were probably already turning red beneath its force. The sand was burning beneath his bare feet. He shifted, trying to relieve the pain, but each new patch of sand was just as hot. There was no shade and no relief to be had here.

The crowd was deafening to his ears. He couldn’t make out any words, for they all blended together into a single, wordless roar, like that of a great lion. The faces, those that he could see near the wall, were a sordid mixture of rage, disgust, and pleasure. Many citizens were lounging in their seats, still, speaking with their neighbors with ease while a servant held a fan aloft to shield them from the sun. They drank wine and ate bits of fruit and meat. This was a show. John was entertainment. 

His stomach rolled. He was afraid. 

And he was not alone. 

He did not notice Bane’s arrival until a shadow fell over him. The crowd went suddenly very quiet.

Shivering, despite the heat, John turned to face Bane. His face, what little could be seen, was as impassive as it had been last night. John wanted to throw himself at Bane; to scream and scratch and kick until he got some sort of reaction. If these were to be his final moments, he wanted them to matter to someone other than himself.

But Bane just stood there, with his hands tucked into the shoulder straps of his thick leather vest. His mask contorted in the same motionless snarl.

The governor of the province spoke in the absence of the crowd’s voice. He may have listed John’s crime, of which there was really only one that mattered, his faith. He may have condemned John as a filthy cannibal, their customs so misunderstood. He may have said a great many things or barely anything at all. John was not even listening because this was not about the Governor or what he thought of John. It was about the players in the arena, playing their parts.

When the governor stopped talking, more men emerged from the dark of the open gate beyond Bane. There must have been twenty in total. Half of them carried short swords and half of them carried bows and arrows. They alternated with half in a semi-circle on the left and half in a semi circle on the right. 

At the Governor’s command, the archers notched arrows but did not draw. Perhaps word had traveled that Bane had not done as he ought to have last night, for surely these gladiators were here to make sure that the show went on as planned.

The whole world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first blow to land.

Bane turned his back on John. The sleepy-eyed archer standing nearest them did not ready his bow but continued to watch carefully. John swallowed nervously.

Bane lifted his arms and the crowd burst into a rowdy cheer that continued even after Bane dropped his hands and turned back to John. His eyes were dark again, under heavy brows. He seemed to pin John to the sand. 

One broad palm swept up and around, showing the audience to John, rather than the opposite.

“Who, then, will you die for?” Bane asked loudly.

John’s cheeks went red with the mockery, especially when a chuckle spread through the other gladiators and the citizens as well. They couldn’t know it for what it was, an extension of their conversation from the night before, but by now Christians had earned something of a reputation for being the sort of fools who volunteered for the humiliating death found in Rome’s gaming arenas.

He spread his feet, digging his toes solidly into the burning sand and he lifted his chin. The lion’s tooth that he had pulled from Bane’s back only hours before hung from his neck on a cord made from John’s own ruined shirt. He was not afraid to die.

“I will die for you,” John said. He did not project for the crowd, as Bane had, but he spoke clearly and without shame. The bold statement caused a murmur to ripple through the soldiers.

Bane’s eyes sharpened on John and he came forward until they were but a man’s width apart. His hand shot out so quickly that John could not have defended against if he tried. It clamped down around his throat and the burning in his feet vanished as he was lifted off of them. He clutched at Bane’s wrist and dangled from his hand. The blood in his head pounded, unable to escape back down to his heart. His lungs began to ache for air. He dropped just as suddenly, collapsing fully to the ground, coughing violently. The crowd laughed. Their gladiators were silent.

“You do not even know me,” Bane reminded him coldly.

John didn’t bother getting back up. He knelt at Bane’s feet and tilted his face up. He bared his throat to Bane again. “I don’t need to,” John whispered. There was good here, there had to be, even in this blood-soaked sand. Bane was not the monster everyone said he was and if John’s willing death could help Bane see even a small piece of the good in the world, it will have been worth it.

“Make it a good show,” John reminded him. It would make little difference to John in the long run, but it might earn Bane the favor of his patrons.

Bane’s eyes glinted with mirth. “I intend to.”

He raised his fist. John desperately wanted to close his eyes, but he found that he couldn’t. It came down and instead of clubbing John upside the head, it opened and John was swept into the broad chest. 

Mayhem broke all at once. The sleepy-eyed archer, who had an arrow trained on John’s chest, loosed an arrow. It whistled past them to embed in the chest of an archer on the other side. John just gaped as the bow dropped from that man’s shocked hand. In an instant, his head followed, removed by the short sword of the large, dark-skinned man beside him. Soldiers clashed with one another in sudden battle. He and Bane stood in the center and before John could really react, most of them were dead. Those that remained circled close and faced outwards, obviously not attacking them.

John wrenched out of Bane’s grasp and whirled around. “What is this?” he demanded, breathing harshly.

“It is a rebellion,” Bane said needlessly. 

“Why?” John was nearly frothing with rage at this point.

Bane raised an eyebrow.

“I’m supposed to die! You told me it had to be this way!” John’s eyes were growing wet but he would be damned before he cried about this. Still, for all that he had only known Bane for a day, he did not want Bane to die because of him.

“If someone must die for the good that remains in this arena…” Bane pulled a knife from his belt. 

John’s heart clenched in selfish fear. He shoved it away and raised his chin. 

But when Bane brought the knife forward, it was to offer it hilt first. “Then let it be me,” he finished.

He stared at the offered weapon uncomprehendingly and then up at Bane. What was happening right now? Bane must be truly out of his mind. Killing Bane would not earn him any sort of reprieve. They would both die. And all these other men, the ones who had helped them, would die as well. He did not understand.

Seeing that confusion, Bane stepped up and pressed the hilt of the knife into John’s palm, much as he had pressed the lion’s tooth there the night before. Bane was so graceful when he sank to his knees that the tears that threatened finally escaped and trailed down John’s cheek. Bane brushed them away with the rough pad of his thumb. 

“Allow me to be the sacrifice, little bird, then follow my brother and be free of this place.”

John glanced around, the archer, Bane’s brother, was just standing there, watching them. He should have been running towards them, shoving in between them and knocking the blade from John’s hand. But even when John raised it to look upon its gleaming length, the man did nothing, like he would accept it if John chose to slit Bane’s throat right here.

He moved quickly, a deft hand with a blade, though not in a fight. It flashed in the sun and cut through the leather strap of the mask as though it was not even there.

Bane blinked and did not move. Beyond, John could hear the pounding of feet. More guards were storming the arena to quell their small and futile rebellion. He willed Bane to move but could not force his own feet to move or his eyes to stray.

Eventually, Bane reached up and touched the broken strap along his left jaw. He grazed against the shallow cut on his cheek and pulled away to stare at the blood.

John reached out and pulled the mask off for him.

Bane’s face was surprisingly fair, although nearly as twisted as the maw graven into the steel of the mask. His lips had once been plump and full, his cheeks high and proud. He was a damaged man, but he was beautiful to John’s eyes. John bent low enough to press his forehead to Bane’s in relief.

“It looks like we’re all going to die here today,” he whispered, the motion causing his lips to brush against Bane’s as he spoke. 

Bane exhaled sharply, his breath tasted stale to John, who breathed it in anyway.

“So young,” Bane crooned fondly. “So sure of yourself.” 

He had the audacity to wink and John pulled away with a scowl.

Just then, there was a rumble that built up all around them. John stood and whirled around. The doors to the cells with quaking in their stone frames. The guards, who had but a moment ago been brandishing weapons in the direction of their small cluster of gladiators, were now looking around in confusion, losing control of their carefully constructed formation.

“Now!”

John jumped at Bane’s barked orders. The gladiators did too, but they jumped forward into the fray. Bane followed and so did John. He was not able to do much, without shoes or armor and only a small knife with which to attack, but he was able to distract a few of them long enough for Bane to snap their necks or run them through with their own swords.

More soldiers were coming though, jumping down from the arena’s seating, or coming in through the side gates. Behind them, the doors to the cells remained closed but trembled and shook, under attack. 

John stood next to Bane and tried not to feel fear for a death he had accepted more than once already.

There was a loud crack and doors to the cells finally gave way. At first there was nothing. No movement, no sound, just a dark, empty doorway. The soldiers readied themselves for a fresh attack. A roar so loud it rattled his bones echoed from the dark passageway. An enormous lion appeared in the doorway, panting and staring ahead. It pulled back its lips and roared again, showing of three very large teeth. 

John was jerked backwards and pushed around until he was watching over the shoulder of Bane’s brother. The lion ran straight into the crowd of soldiers, brandishing it claws and snarling. The was more movement from the open doors and suddenly two large brown bears were barrelling out. The soldiers had started shouting and some fired arrows. Next, a handful of a boars with long tusks stampeded out, followed by at least six full grown wolves. 

John gaped. These were the animals they released to eat slaves convicted of crimes. These were the animals they would have gladly fed John to, had they not thought Bane would provide greater entertainment.

He looked up. The Governor was standing on his balcony, leaning over and shouting. His face was purple with rage. Half the crowd was screaming in horror and fleeing over the top of the rise of seats. The other half had shoved in close to the wall, trying to get a better view of the carnage.

By this point, the lion had been put off by the interference of the other animals. He jumped and scrambled up the wall, somehow shifting its bulk against gravity. He passed over the top and killed at least one man who was too dumbfounded to flee quickly enough. The rest of them scattered in terror.

They had demanded that Bane play his part and give them a show. Bane had delivered. 

“Time to go, little bird,” Bane’s brother said. 

Before John could say anything he was being lifted up. His feet were placed on another’s shoulders and he could reach the top of the wall in an empty section of the arena. He held on tight and hauled himself up, seeing Bane’s brother do the same nearby.

No sooner had his feet hit the stone, than he was set upon. He fell back against the top of the wall, holding on to the forearms of the guard bearing down on him with his sword. John thought quickly and kicked out. The guard flinched. John kicked again he faltered. Then, the guard was sailing past John’s shoulder, pulled face-first over the wall as Bane himself climbed up after John. 

John grinned and together they helped the rest up and over. The lot of them dispersed into the crowd and vanished in the confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to know a little more about early Christian martyrdom in gladiatorial arenas, I recommend the story of Saints Perpetua and Felicity. Warning, they do not have a friend like Bane.
> 
> Next Chapter... the promised sex.


	2. Chapter 2

They were smuggled out of town laying flat on their stomachs in a little cavern formed beneath a stack of empty barrels. He and Bane remained wedged against one another for hours, getting sore and stiff against the boards of the cart bed. Every time the barrels rattled and settled against one another, John would tense. He waited for them to crash down on them but, they never did. John pillowed his head on his hands and did his best to doze but he was jolted awake every time the cart dropped into a hole in the road and bounced back up. 

It was late afternoon by the time the cart driver pulled to a halt and let them out. The sun was golden to the west, giving the grasses a brown cast. Bane’s brother, the sleepy eyed archer from the arena was examining him sharply as he slid out from beneath the barrels. He handed a bundle to Bane and another to John. They changed swiftly out of sight of the road, Bane trading his armor for leather workman’s clothing and John trading his damaged trousers for the simple tunic and trousers of a farmhand. He nearly cried with relief when a pair of boots dropped into dust in front of his bare feet upon returning to the cart. 

Plopping a wide brimmed hat down on Bane’s bare head, the archer smirked at John. “You may ride up front with me, little bird.”

“Why do you all keep calling me that?,” John complained as he pulled himself up onto the bench in front. He settled back with a poorly contained grimace. His ribs ached. His feet stung. He was sore all over and so tired he felt he could fall off the cart unconscious without minding, despite all of that he was awake and feeling argumentative. “My name is John.”

The archer sprang neatly up from the ground and sat next to John. He glanced between them and then towards the back. “That is not what the message said.” He was smirking again. 

Bane had perched on the back of the cart. He faced the rear with his legs hanging over. His head was down and he had wrapped a length of cloth around his chin, but John had no doubt he was paying attention. He didn’t say anything, though.

“You could at least not call me something so demeaning.” John crossed his arms, grimaced, and then uncrossed them at the sharp complaint of his ribs.

He received only a raised eyebrow in response that was so reminiscent of the ones that Bane had raised at him, he had no doubt about how much time these two men had spent together. The cart jolted forward with one snap of the reins.

A little more than an hour later when the last of the sun’s rays dyed the sky a vibrant purple, rapid hoofbeats approached from behind. John turned to see who it was. Flashes of red caught his eye. The flicker of Roman capes in the wind behind their running mounts. Bane seemed to be watching them, but made no move to ready for a fight. John didn’t know whether to prepare himself or act unconcerned. The decision was made when a hand on his shoulder turned him to face front once more. 

John flicked a glance over but pressed his mouth shut and forced himself to lean back as the cart slowed and pulled to one side. 

His heart sped up to match the thunder of hooves and he nearly gasped in relief when the riders thundered past them without so much as slowing down. They pulled back onto the road as though there was nothing to be concerned about. 

An empty hand appeared in front of him, palm up and fingers curled slightly. John looked over again. 

“I am Barsad.”

John swallowed. He placed his own hand inside the one offered. “John,” he replied.

“Well met, Robin,” came the smirking response.

\----

They spent the night in a clearing a short distance off the main road where a small creek burbled merrily down the hillside. The water was freezing, but that did not stop either man from stripping their borrowed clothing and scrubbing away the dirt and mud of the arena. John’s nipples peaked and his balls drew up in protest but by God was it worth it. 

His intense gratitude prompted a silent, but fervent prayer that morphed into a beseechment for fortitude when his eyes fluttered open. 

By the light of the moon, Bane’s naked form was a work of art. Even with a view from the side, as John had, he could clearly see the cut of his thigh muscles, the layer of fatty tissue that protected his core, the bulge of his arms where they raised to swipe water across his bare scalp. His skin was pale where his trousers would cover and tan where it was bared to the sun. Scars, bruises, and fresh contusions wove a story of imperfection and hardship.

John flushed and splashed several large, cold handfuls of water across his chest and thighs that took care of his distraction.

Barsad had made a fire and set a rabbit to roasting across it by the time John dressed and returned to their camp. He was bent over a bowl in his lap, though, running a smooth rock from the creek around the inside.

“Bring me a lemon from the bag on the cart,” Barsad commanded without looking up from his work.

John made a face but complied, far too exhausted to argue by this point. The cold water had woken him up a bit to keep dragging his feet but he was in dire need of sleep. He climbed onto the wooden bench seat and palmed a lemon from the bag behind it. It was small and certainly quite tart. 

The lemon was cut, peeled, and added to the crushed green leaves in the bowl while John helped himself to a few cuts of meat from the rabbit. Bane joined them and did much the same. The three of them sat in companionable silence with the popping of the fire and the occasional scrape of rock against wood to mark the passage of time.

Bane retired to a bedroll beside the fire.

John could not help the way his eyes tracked the movement, jealous and covetous. He would need to exercise more caution now that it appeared his lifespan was to be extended.

Barsad thrust the bowl into John’s chest, interrupting his thoughts. “Go.” He waved at Bane, who had settled on his stomach.

A quick sniff revealed it to be lemon, basil, and few other things that John could not identify. 

“For his wounds.”

It was likely all the explanation he would receive, so John carried to bowl over to where Bane was stretched out on his stomach. “Bane?” he whispered, not sure how quickly the man could fall asleep.

“Your assistance is appreciated, little bird,” he answered.

Protest lingered on the tip of his tongue regarding Bane’s favored nickname. It did not take flight, though he could not have said why. Instead, he settled on his knees and regarded Bane’s shirt as one might regard an impenetrable wall. Bane wasn’t moving to sit up and take it off or otherwise help John with his dilemma, so he had no choice but lift it up and away from his lower back regardless. 

The wounds he found there were puffy and red. Infection made them rough and ugly but the recent bathing cleaned away the dirt and grime that John’s pitiful attentions could not fully accomplish. Nerves fired messages beneath the skin that John touched now, the muscles beneath them twitching in refusal to pull away from the pain. The paste concoction that Barsad made had to sting as the lemon juice seeped into open wounds. 

“Sorry,” John muttered with a grimace Bane couldn’t see.

One colossus of a shoulder rolled with a shrug. Bane tilted his face towards the side where John was kneeling. It cast too dark a shadow to reveal his expression, but he said, “Do not apologize for the necessary pain that will bring healing.”

John huffed a laugh and began to push the green paste into the deep punctures on his lower back. “Most people would not feel that way.”

“I am not most people.”

Exhaustion left him helpless to the ripple of laughter that overtook him at the needlessly obvious comment. It just kept falling from his lips, nearly a tormented series of whimpers for all it humor. 

“You don’t say,” John said when he could manage words.

Bane merely snorted, presumably at John’s silliness. Still, he didn’t elaborate when John carefully laid the fabric of his shirt over the damp paste covering his injuries and left to wash the bowl in the stream so as not to attract any wild creatures.

\----

John had needed to curl up close to Bane’s side to try and draw some warmth but in the end, he not only slept but got a modicum of rest. When they rose, Barsad gave them two apples each and a wedge of cheese to share. 

“Eat quickly,” Barsad told them. “We must find a place to hide you until cries for your head have quieted.”

“Won’t they be looking for you too?” John asked.

Bane sat next to John, making him feel incredibly small but also incredibly protected. “Barsad is skilled at going unnoticed.”

Barsad only snorted. “Next to you, who wouldn’t be?”

John suspected there was more to it than just the fact that Bane would obviously draw the most attention, given his sheer size and the scars on his face. To John, Barsad was every bit the predator that Bane was, if a different species. 

The apple in his palm was cool to the touch, the skin red and yellow. He bit into it. John relished the taste, allowing his eyes to slide closed as the juices filled his mouth and memories of a summer not too long ago filled his mind. Regarding the white flesh inside of it, he realized he might have a place where they could rest.

He spent the next few hours describing his mentor to Barsad, the man’s farm, and its location. Barsad asked many pointed questions about Bruce’s past and the way he had treated John through the years. He asked how they had met and how they kept in contact. There was not much to hide that Bane, and therefore Barsad, did not already know so John answered the questions vaguely enough to protect his mentor’s privacy but thoroughly enough to satisfy Barsad’s suspicions of betrayal.

It took them another full day’s journeying, leaving the populated areas around the city and entering the quiet pastoral countryside. Soldiers passed occasionally. One even stopped and asked if they had seen anything of note but mostly seemed interested in whether or not they had any wine left in their barrels. No one harassed them. 

There were riders who pulled up alongside them, clearly not soldiers by their strange manner of dress. They spoke to Barsad in a language that John could not even identify and they never stayed more than a few moments before riding off again.

Although the traveling was far from the most pleasant way to spend his time, it was infinitely better than anything he’d experienced in the past several weeks. He was well enough to divide his time between riding in the front with Barsad, who said little, to riding in the back with Bane, who said almost nothing. 

He and Bane were perched on the back of the cart when they eventually passed through a small village and turned off the road onto a drive. It became narrow and began to wind its way up a hillside. By the time the roadside grasses were replaced with apple trees planted in long rows parallel to the slope, John was standing on the back of the cart looking forward. The air smelled of apples.

Two figures waited for them in the darkness of the drive in front of the villa. John hopped down first and made a beeline for the smaller of the two, unafraid. 

They clasped hands around forearms. Bruce’s hand came up to clasp John on the shoulder. John smiled.

“I am told you have had quite the adventure,” Bruce teased, with a glance towards the other. It was the dark skinned man from the arena. Barsad must have sent word ahead, although how they convinced Bruce that it was truth was beyond John at the moment.

John ducked his head. “I may have gotten into a little bit of trouble, Mr. Wayne”

“What else is new?” Bruce ruffled John’s hair.

He made a show of complaining about the treatment, of course, but he didn’t really mind the gesture of brotherly affection. When Bruce froze and dropped his hand as though he had been scalded, though, John sensed Bane’s hulking presence at his back. He hastened to make introductions. 

“Bruce Wayne, this is Bane.” He turned and put a hand on Bane’s arms, looking up at him even though the warrior was staring Bruce down still. “Bane, this is Bruce Wayne.”

Nothing happened.

They stared at one another. Bruce looked colder than John had ever seen him. Bane was unreadable. John squeezed Bane’s bicep gently and added, “Bruce helped me when I was young and lost my parents. He is my brother.”

Bane blinked and looked down at John. He nodded solemnly and did not speak. 

At least the glaring was over now, though.

Bruce seemed to have taken the intrusion of armed strangers in stride, leading them around the outside of the villa and pointing out the servant’s quarters, kitchens, barns, and other out buildings. “You’ll be staying in the old barn,” Bruce said, leading the way. “No one uses it and if anyone comes looking you, no one wil think to point them in that direction.”

It was out of sight of the villa, buried in a thicket of trees and briars around the bend of one of the hills. Even John’s uneducated eye could tell it was the sort of place one would choose if privacy was primary and defense secondary. Comfort was of no concern.

The door creaked when Bruce opened it. Moonlight seeped in through the cracks in the wood siding. Other than that, it was dark. 

“I had Alfred leave some water and medical supplies in the loft,” Bruce said. He lit a lantern hanging from a post. It cast a small but warm glow. Bruce turned to John because Bane was pacing the dark reaches of the barn, mapping out the interior. “I’ll have him bring you food from the kitchen in the morning and at night, after the servants have eaten. Other than that, there is a river at the bottom of the hill to bathe and you can help yourselves to whatever you find in here.”

The barn seemed to contain a mass dilapidated equipment but it was generous nonetheless. Bruce was not, himself, a Christian but he could be fined or imprisoned for consorting with one. The clasped hands again.

“Thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce nodded, cast one last look at Bane’s back and then left.

Barsad was left standing by the open door, the other man some distance away but nearby. He and Bane stared at one another for a moment before Bane inclined his head and said, “Safe travels, brother.”

With a sharp nod at Bane and a wink at John, Barsad left. He took his man with him and John was alone with Bane again for the first time since that first night, in the cell.

John cast his eyes about but chose to climb the ladder to loft and leave Bane to exploring the ground floor. It was a small loft, barely tall enough for John to stand upright in the middle. Bane would have to hunch over, even in the tallest part. The loft was mostly empty. There was a pile of fresh hay laid out near the closed shutters and two leather packs. There were a few open barrels stored up here. One had some old horse blankets and the others carried an assortment of broken, dried out leather harnesses and such. 

The blankets, when he pulled a few out, scattered some dry mouse droppings on the floor. There were holes in them where the mice ate through, but were otherwise serviceable. He threw some over the hay and tucked the edges under to keep the makeshift bed together. That done, he sat on the blanket and pulled one of the packs into his lap to take stock of what they had to work with.

The ladder creaked. Bane set the lamp on the loft floor and followed it up. John had been right, the warrior couldn’t stand up straight. Sitting on the floor like he was, with Bane very much filling up the room in front of him, John once again felt very small, very safe, and something else entirely.

“There are some ointments in here,” John explained. He retrieved a small jar and held it up awkwardly.

Bane knelt down in front of John and even though he ought to have been able to straighten up his torso with the extra room, he just leaned even further forward. A gasp forced its way out when his large paw nearly covered John neck from the bottom of his ear to the top of his shoulder. The heat of it seared his skin, tempered to the cool evening.

He blinked. 

Bane studied him. His eyes were dark again, shadowed in the dim light. His face, impassive and scarred but so beautiful for the very fact that he somehow still survived, was close enough that if John simply relaxed his neck, their cheeks might rub together. He suddenly, viscerally, wanted to know what those scars would feel like against his skin.

It terrified him.

“I- I should. Use them, I mean: the ointments. I should apply them to your back.” His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “It will help.”

“Thank you, Robin.” 

Bane seemed so earnest when he said it. John’s chest ached at the kindness. He could have said any number of things that called to attention just how foolish John was being right now. Instead, he just sat on the hay bedding next to John and removed his shirt.

The surprise of seeing just how much better the wounds looked kept John from lingering on his own embarrassment. He pressed his fingers along one broken edge. The swelling was less. The skin was warm, but not hot with infection. The raw skin looked pink a healthy. Healing. A simple wash should not have been enough to cause so much improvement.

“How?” His voice was barely audible.

Bane answered anyway. “There are many mysteries in the world. That has been one I have carried since childhood.”

It wasn’t really an answer. John wanted to know where it came from, how it worked. Did Bane always heal so rapidly, or was it only certain types of injuries? What was the worst injury he had sustained and lived through? A thousand more questions buzzed in his mind, but he didn’t give voice to a single one. It wasn’t his place and he didn’t want to bring up a painful past when he was being shown such trust again.

So he opened the jar and scooped some of the ointment out with his fingers. He applied it swiftly and surely to each laceration and puncture. When he finished, he closed the jar and wiped his hands off on an extra horse blanket.

Bane turned back around but made no move to replace his shirt. John tried not to look at the bulge of his pectorals or the deceptively soft look to his stomach in this seated position.  
“Is there something in there for bruises?” Bane asked.

John frowned and pulled out a second jar that had smelled of comfrey and lavender when he opened it. Bane didn’t have very many bruises, that he could recall.

Bane took it and looked at John expectantly. It took a few minutes for him to realize that Bane meant to use it on him. 

“I’m fine-” he began to protest.

“Robin”

John swallowed. “That is not my name,” he said weakly.

A small, beautiful smile, played on those ruined lips. John wondered what it might feel like against his throat. He took off his shirt, thinking it the lesser of two evils. 

He was wrong.

The only thing worse than having to see and touch Bane’s skin, was having Bane see and touch him. Each brush of his fingers were incredibly gentle. The rasp of his callouses all but disappeared under the smooth glide of the cream. John closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation across his ribs, willing himself to stay still.

He gasped when he was manhandled. Rather than turning John around to reach his back, Bane pulled him closer and situated John like a puppet. In the blink of an eye, John’s legs were spread across Bane’s lap, looking the other man in the eye He tensed in uncertainty, which made the thickness of Bane’s thighs all the more prominent beneath his own. A thrill ran through him. He squeezed his legs tighter.

Bane’s eyes crinkled at the corners and gleamed in the orange glow of the lantern.

The rough texture of callouses was eased by ointment provided for the ease of pain from bruising. It was thick, like an lotion and cool against his skin. A shiver spread out across John’s shoulders and down his arms, raising the small dark hairs there. This reaction, however minute, could not be missed by those sharp eyes. Bane said nothing but he tracked that shiver and it was a physical touch.

“Bane,” John whispered. He had no idea what he actually wanted to say.

The warrior only hummed in response. His hand shifted around to rub the ointment over the bruises on John’s back. The motion rocked him forward until his arms folded between them were the only things keeping their bare chests from pressing together. 

His chest was smooth, no hair to be found. Had the overseers removed it? The need to taste it now that he had felt it was so visceral it was only then he realized that his lips were parted and wanting. Fingers flexed against those plush muscles and Bane tensed all around him. 

Those arms were like steel around him, the arousal beneath his own like granite. He had grown as a Roman and converted to Christianity as a young man. Neither one of them would approve of the thoughts that slammed into him with all the force of a runaway horse. He might have been shamed in them both, if they were to find out how badly he wanted slip along this masculine creature and take that cock into his mouth. 

“Tell me, Robin,” Bane murmured. “What would you like to do with this new life you have been given?”

John swallowed hard. “You’re the one who gave it to me. What would you have me do?” 

His sudden inhale started sharply but quickly shuddered its way into revealing how much Bane’s hand sweeping up his spine affected him. That hand was broad enough to reach nearly shoulder to shoulder. By the time it spanned his neck, Bane was cupping his jaw and gazing at him critically. 

Would John ever grow accustomed to that intensity?

“I would see you upon Ceasar’s throne.” 

It was a whisper felt more than heard, in the way his breath fanned against John’s sensitive lips. The awe within it made John want to recoil, hide his face in shame. He was not meant to enjoy that brief and illogical swell of pride at Bane’s worshipful tone. 

As if to assuage John’s guilt, Bane continued. “I know you have no desire for power. Perhaps that is why I desire so fiercely to see you wield it. As much as would give to see you wreathed in laurel as your noble spirit deserves, I have no wish to smother you, little bird.”

John was not royalty. Not even distantly. He had been a poor orphan who had found good fortune when an aging Centurion took him in, adopted him, and treated him as his own son. John was a respectful client, good with his letters despite not being trained in Greece. He did his work well but without notice. Where Bane’s sudden desire to see John wield power came from, he could not fathom.

“What are you talking about?”

Bane pulled away just enough to reach into the farmer’s clothing that suited him poorly. He withdrew the small soap figurine and held it up in the moonlight.

That young woman, or little girl, seemed so critical of John with her firmly planted feet and upturned chin. 

“I have seen spirit like yours before,” Bane told him.

“Who is she?”

And so, Bane explained about the girl who had been born into a prison far away from Rome, who had never known the sun until Bane showed her how to fly. John didn’t interrupt, not even to ask clarifying questions. This was the woman to whom Bane had built a shrine. None of the goddesses within the pantheon had received that honor. When everything was to be brought to an end, it was her likeness he stole away. Her likeness and John himself.

“What happened to her?” John asked, knowing it could not be good. She had been taken away from Bane, at some point. Bane was a gladiator.

The larger man shifted under John, their arousals both having faded under the labor of emotional story-telling. John mourned the delayed opportunity but would not move to rectify it yet. 

“Talia sought revenge on the man who killed her father. She had met her match, however. She could not let it go and I could not ask it of her.” Bane’s eyes were focused on a distant scene over John’s shoulder. 

Boldly, John turned Bane’s face back to his and joined their foreheads.

“She died achieving the last satisfaction of her thirst for blood. I was captured, despite my best intentions, and made a gladiator.” 

“Why did you fight for them?” Surely a man like Bane could find a way to get out of it, whether by a self-imposed end or an escape as he had yesterday. Yet Bane had been a popular fighter for a while, long enough for even John to have seen him in action.

“With Talia dead, I was without direction.”

“Why escape? Why now?”

John might expect a lesser man to avoid eye contact with the person probing their innermost thoughts and motivations. All the more reason that Bane should continue to meet his gaze without a single falter. 

“I was without direction, but not without purpose or responsibility. My men had need of me, would require my leadership , if only as proof that their continued support was not in vain. As to the timing, I encountered an obstacle that I could not remove, nor had I any wish to remove it. All was in place, I merely moved the date of execution ahead by a week or two.”

It would have been easier for Bane, even Barsad, to kill John. If they satisfied the crowd with the spectacle of another dead Christian, they would have left the weary gladiator alone for a time to heal and recuperate. It would have been easy to disappear from his cell. He’d have been well out of the city before any guards even noticed that he was missing. By the time the alarm was raised, Bane would have been free, likely without ever needing to fight a guard or soldier.

That meant the spectacle of the escape had been for John. Bane had decided that John was worth all that effort in the scant hours they spent occupying the same space. John was not worthy of that.

He pulled away on instinct, needing to escape Bane’s adoration as badly as needed to escape his shame.

Characteristically, Bane seemed unconcerned with John’s retreat. He did not fear that John would leave, or that John could hope to escape even an injured and tired gladiator. Was he really so easy to control?

Disgust mixed with self-hatred swamped him. He had no outlet. He wanted to bruise his fists on some scumbag in the gambling hall. He wanted to wring someone’s neck just to get some modicum of control back over his life. Floorboards creaked under his agitated pacing and he did not hear the movement that brought him chest to chest to Bane again. He sucked in a breath and held it.

“Your mind must be a loud place,” Bane remarked. 

John was horrified to see a small grin twist those ruined lips upwards at the corner. He shoved Bane’s chest, regardless of just how futile he knew it to be. 

“What would you know about it?” he challenged. 

Not even swaying, Bane pinned John’s hands against his broad chest and refused to indulge any attempts to pull away. Even worse, he accomplished it with just one hand. The other brushed the pad of a rough thumb across John’s cheekbone. It was gentle enough to make John cry. And then punch him.

Instead, John kissed him. 

There was no skill involved whatsoever in the desperate clash of lip that John all but forced Bane to endure. Yet, Bane shifted his grip and was pulling John closer. A tilted head and a brush of tongue had John gasping. Just like that, the fire reignited. 

John clung to Bane’s wide shoulders as he pushed his way into the man’s mouth with teeth and tongue. He took without thought, knowing only that this heat building between them chased away thoughts he couldn’t bear. It built in the friction between John’s hips and Bane’s thighs. John growled in frustration that he could not match the hardness against his belly alongside his own.

“I want you,” he panted against Bane’s mouth before dipping his tongue back in and flicking against a pale scar. That slight indentation of hardened scar tissue was unlike anything else to grace John’s tongue and it spoke entirely of raw strength and never ending survival. It spoke entirely of Bane, which is why John did it again and again with each one that bisected his lips. There was no taste save the slightly metallic tang of another’s saliva, but John would lick it all.

“How?” 

Such a strong man, sounding so weak and uncertain, all because of a pointed tongue and a soft belly. It was a heady power and unlike the power offered to him only moments before, John sucked this up eagerly.

When he tightened his arms around Bane’s neck and jumped, he was caught and cradled. Two burning hot hands seared the flesh of his thighs just before the curve of his buttocks. Best of all, Bane’s long cock was trapped against his own. 

John writhed against it, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Bane’s jaw to his ear. There he whispered, “I want you inside me. Your fingers, your tongue, your cock.”

Your heart.

“Whatever I can get. I want you so deep inside me that anything that isn’t the two of us.”

The world spun with the rumble on an inhuman growl. They landed on the blanket-covered pile of hay, Bane on his back and John on top of him, still straddling his waist. It must of hurt, but Bane cradled John well enough that the only jolt he felt was his cock coming to an abrupt halt against Bane’s. A moan tore from his throat and he shifted against the hands bracing his hips.

With his own hands free, John swept them up Bane’s chest in front of him. Those pectoral muscles, John licked his lips at the indentations formed when he squeezed the distended flesh. Bane jerked beneath him, his hands tightening and stilling John’s hips for a moment.

Panting, John slipped up along Bane’s body and brushed his lips against a slack mouth, seeking an answer to his question, “What do you want?”

Bane’s glazed over expression sharpened on him.

“What do you want?” John repeated.

It was almost as though it had not occurred to Bane to want anything because he was quiet for a long moment, studying John’s face. Patient, John lay across Bane’s chest and pet his collarbone.

“I-” Doubt like storm clouds flickered in his grey eyes. 

John pressed a kiss to the corner of his faltering lips, hoping that it felt patient and accepting when he really desired to suck the answer from his lungs and satisfy it.

“I… do not have the words,” Bane finally conceded, slow and uncertain.

Whether it was some Roman demon or the Almighty God himself acting like this in John’s life, he had many prayers to say.

“Do you want me?” 

“Yes.”

John flattened Bane’s nipples with the palm of each hand and squeezed harder this time. “Do you want me to touch you like this?”

“Yes.” It was more of a gasp now.

“Do you want me underneath you?”

Bane’s hands on his hips tightened again, this time nearly to the point of pain, as he pulled John’s pelvis down into his own stomach. It was far more solid a surface than John’s own, he couldn’t help but notice. He gasped, “I’ll take that as a no.”

Words that articulated Bane’s desire from earlier echoed in John’s mind. He grinned, feeling wicked as he leaned forward and mouthed at one pink nipple. He arched his back for show, but it had the added benefit of allowing Bane’s cock to brush between his spread ass cheeks. It was an excellent feeling. He wanted more, but he had one more question to ask.

One last lick and John was sitting up, scooting even further forward until his cock and balls were nested in the dip between pectoral muscles. He did his best to look confident and regal even though the words were clumsy in his head. “Do you want me to sit on cock like Caesar's throne and ride it until it pleases me?”

Bane stared, completely still.

“Yes.”

That one guttural confirmation was the last coherent word either of them said since Bane seized John’s ass to pull him close to mouth at the place where his dick arched up from his balls. John threw his head back and rocked forward onto the tongue. No one had put their mouth there before. He’d had a woman suck his cock once, but only the head of it. Bane wasn’t actually paying any attention to his cock, choosing instead to lap at his testicles and suck on the damp junction between them and his thigh.

Muscles in John’s thighs began to quiver from the effort of holding his weight off Bane’s chest. Pulling away was futile, though, as Bane shifted to pay the same attention to the other side of his pelvis. John nearly jumped off entirely when Bane nosed behind his balls and licked the stretch of skin there but the shock rippled away into nothing and he lost the fight. His ass settled back and he surrendered to the questing tongue.

“Enough,” John gasped, pulling away and slipping off of Bane to land off to one side.

Bane nearly pulled him back on until he saw John scrambling with his breeches, trying to kick them off as quickly as possible but only getting tangled. Bane lifted his hips and pushed his own down and off. John watched, of course, licking his lips at the hooded penis. It took every practical instinct he had to drag the pack over and fish out a bottle of olive oil before leaning over and mouthing at the foreskin. 

“Please,” Bane practically demanded. 

John pulled away and threw his leg over Bane’s stomach again. When he coated his fingers and reached around behind himself, he could feel that cockhead brushing up against him. He resisted the urge to pet it, even in this uncomfortable twist, and pushed a finger inside himself.

Bane’s hands had settled on his hips again, like he didn’t have permission to touch John anywhere else.

“Touch me,” John growled, pushing a second finger in and out to prepare himself.

Finally those calloused fingers began to drag across his skin, up over his bruised rib cage, over his nipples, around his neck, and through his hair. John hissed his approval when they skated down the center of his chest and wrapped around his smaller, circumcised erection. His hand engulfed John. With enough oil, it could be just like fucking. John panted and hung his heated face forward.

Removing his fingers, he rubbed the oily mess across Bane’s unoccupied hand and brought it around. Bane’s fingers were bigger, there’d be a better stretch. Bane needed no further guidance and set to work teasing John’s tight rim into a more relaxed state. 

“Now,” John concluded after long minutes of panting silence and stretching. If Bane was going to say anything, he did not get the chance because John pulled him away and poured more oil onto that hand. “I need you inside me.”

Bane complied.

He was enormous and as slow and unrelenting as an oncoming storm. John squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep, shuddering breath, and willed himself to relax into the pain of the stretch. He sighed and sagged back on the length when he felt pubic hair brushing up against him. It took some effort to sit up straight on it but when he swiveled his hips experimentally, Bane arched beneath him like he had been stung.

John clung to Bane’s chest to keep from getting bucked off. He forced his lungs to expand while Bane visibly struggled to regain control. His hands, for a change, were not plastered to John’s hips and were instead fisting clumps of hay beneath the blanket on either side. His eyes, when he finally managed to open them and train them hazily on John’s face, were blown nearly black with desire. He knew with bone deep certainty that he would most definitely be underneath Bane next time. 

Licking his lips, half at what he was currently experiencing and half at what he was anticipating for tomorrow, John rose up along Bane’s cock. It was strange at first, as it was the last time John had been brave enough to do this, but after a few repetitions he mind accepted the intrusion and the pleasure that came with it.

His rhythm was steady at first but got quicker until he was practically bouncing on his dick in short, rapid thrusts of his hips. He whined at the feeling of his balls slapping down between, getting compressed before he rose up again. His own cock was dribbling precome between them, slicking Bane’s stomach.

So when Bane finally relaxed his death grip on the blanket and took him in hand, it was a smooth glide.

John slammed down one last time and ground his ass down against Bane’s hips. Bane heaved himself into a sitting position and circled John with his arms as John came against his abdomen. John clenched every muscle as the pressure in his balls released and pleasure swamped him.

He was on his back, pressed into the sweaty indentation where Bane had been laying before the aftershocks fully eased. He grunted, short, involuntary breaths has Bane drove into his pliant body until he found his own completion and added to the warm ooze of fluids in John’s ass.

Bane was heavy, even when he pulled out and shifted so only half his body was pressed on top of John’s. 

John couldn’t bring himself to care. He just lay there and stared at the rafters while tracing idle patterns through the cooling sweat on Bane’s shoulders.

“You should have let me die in the arena,” he mused good naturedly. “I’m not sure even the Christ’s sacrifice could redeem my soul after that.”

Bane snorted a laugh against John’s collarbone but did not otherwise move.

“I could have died a martyr; gone straight to heaven.” he teased.

“I could take you back, if you wish.”

It was John’s turn to laugh. He turned onto his and pressed himself into Bane’s chest beneath the shelter of one massive arm. He nuzzled into the musky skin as he sobered.

“I know what I want to do with my new life,” he whispered into the skin.

Bane waited him out, silent.

Pulling away, John looked nervously at his bed partner. Would Bane want to be his partner in this, too? John would have to do it either way, now that it had come to him. Steeling himself against rejection, John said, “I want to protect my people. We shouldn’t have to die as entertainment for the mob.”

Blinking slowly, Bane said nothing. Then he leaned forward and bestowed upon John a kiss so tender that it stole his breath. Only when John was nearly incoherent again did he pull away and say, “As you wish.”

John bit his lip. 

“Rest,” Bane told him. “I have much to teach you if you are to protect them from Rome.”

Anxiety bled away and with it any remaining tension. His ass was wet and thick with oil and come. He ought to at least fetch their water skin and wipe it away but his limbs were heavy. Maybe a quick nap and then he could take Bane to the river and bathe before learning how to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! I hope this was entertaining, especially if you are quarantined anywhere around the world.


End file.
